Doubt
by LadyKailitha
Summary: That black dog of doubt and feelings of not being good enough comes after us all. Even the most self-assured. Even Sherlock Holmes.


**A/N: Hello, my lovelies. Some times my muse takes a hold of idea and doesn't let me go until I have written it up and shipped it off to my beta (who is too awesome to be believed) to be edited. This is one of those times. There is this quote Lestrade says in "The Adventure of the Six Napoleons" that just struck a chord with me. Especially considering that it is actually the opposite in the show. **

**_"We're not jealous of you down at Scotland Yard. No, sir, we are proud of you, and if you come down to-morrow there's not a man, from the oldest inspector to the youngest constable, who wouldn't be glad to shake you by the hand."_**

**It's one of the times Watson describes his friend as being moved. And in that limbo between Christmas and the New Year, I thought I'd cheer up our detective. **

**Another reason for this story is that I had my own black dog come a howling a couple weeks back and I had a friend sit and chat with me online until I felt better. I'm not saying that something so small can lift someone out of depression, the actual clinical disease. But sometimes all it takes is to know that you aren't alone as the depression makes you to be. And it is for that reason that this is johnlock. Admittedly, it's very jonhlock lite, but it's there. I was going to make it a friendship fic, but then I thought "I'm writing this to make me happy and nothing makes me happier than johnlock." So I tossed it in and never looked back.**

* * *

When John came home from work he was greeted by his least favorite sight. A Sherlock Holmes caught in a sulk. John sighed wearily. His day at the surgery had been utter shit; the last thing he wanted to do was deal with a broody detective. He sighed heavily and went to the kitchen to start making them both a cup of tea. He got everything ready, waiting for the water to boil. He leaned against the counter and realized something was wrong.

When Sherlock was in a sulk, he would complain to the first person who walked into the room. But the flat was eerily silent. John flicked off the kettle and walked back into the sitting room. Sherlock was still there on the sofa, curled up with his back to the room. John wondered if his friend was sleeping, but as he neared the detective, he could hear a soft noise coming from his friend.

John frowned. It couldn't be. "Sherlock?" he whispered. The sound abruptly stopped. And John knew he had been right, his friend had been crying. Sherlock whirled around. His eyes were red, and his face was puffy and wet from the tears.

"John?" came the choked reply. It made John want to join in on the crying.

He approached the sofa carefully. "Hey there."

This mood was new, but only in the sense that this was the first time seeing it in his friend. But John had seen it in patients and even his own mother. This was the deep and nasty snarl of depression. It made John's heart ache.

"Why do you stay?" Sherlock asked.

John cocked his head to the side. "What do you mean?" He knelt by his friend so that they were eye to eye.

"Why do stay with me? I'm no good for you. I'm not a good friend to you. I take advantage of you. I leave you behind. I lie through my teeth. I experiment on you. And here you are, why? Why, John?"

"Sherlock, you can't take advantage of someone unless they let you," John reminded him.

"Half the Yard only tolerates me and the rest is jealous. My brother hates me, and I'm a disappointment to my parents. I've pushed everyone away. Everyone but you. Why do you stay, John? Why do you delay the inevitable?"

"I did go, remember?"

Sherlock closed his eyes. "Mary."

"Which also wasn't your fault. What caused this?"

Tears filled Sherlock's eyes and laid back on the sofa. "Why did you come back? I only destroy. I'm the east wind. I will destroy, John. You should leave before I destroy you, too." And then he rolled so his back was to his friend, his body in a tight curl of distress.

John's mouth was set in a firm line. He would get to the bottom of this, even if he had to go to the depths of hell to do so. First things first.

"You don't go anywhere!" John hollered before dashing down to 221A. He pounded on his landlady's door.

She opened it up with a concerned expression on her face, "John?"

"I need you to do me a favor, Mrs H."

"What do you need, dear?"

"I have to run out, but Sherlock is in bad shape. Could watch him for me?"

Mrs Hudson's face transformed. "Of course, dearie. I'll bring up those biscuits he likes and make up his favorite tea."

John kissed her cheek. "You are a gem, Mrs H."

She blushed and shooed him off.

He rushed back up to the sitting room. He typed out something quickly on his blog and then hid his laptop. He didn't think Sherlock had the energy to steal it, but he wanted to make sure.

He grabbed his phone, keys and coat. He knelt by the detective. "I'm going to prove how wrong you are. You stay right here until I come for you, do understand?"

Sherlock turned to look at him, his surprise coloring his features. After a moment he nodded.

"Good, Mrs Hudson is going to bring you your favorite tea and biscuits." John ran his fingers through Sherlock's hair soothingly and then kissed his brow.

Sherlock stared after him in shock as John dashed out the door and down the stairs to the street.

He typed out a quick message and then dashed over to Regent's Park. He looked around until he spotted the homeless girl from the Blind Banker case. He wrote a hastily scribbled message and handed it to her with a £50 note. She read the note and looked up at him in shock.

"It's imperative," John told her.

"Yes, sir."

He dug out his phone again and pressed 7 on his speed dial.

_"John,"_ the voice on the end of the call murmured. _"To what do I owe the honor of your call?"_

"Sherlock."

There was silence for a span of a few seconds before the other speaker said, "_What's he done this time?_"

"Said you hate him," John replied.

This time the silence stretched on. "_I-I don't know what to say_," Mycroft finally stammered.

"How about telling me why he'd think that?" John snarled into the receiver.

"_Nothing I can think of, I assure you_," Mycroft said, hastening to calm the doctor. "_In fact, I thought things were getting better between us_."

"Yeah, that's what I thought, too. He also said that he was a disappointment to your parents."

"_I highly doubt that_," Mycroft said with some bitterness. "_He's their favorite. I'm just a boring politician; he's a consulting detective. Believe me, they are _quite_ proud of him._"

John rubbed his fingers over his eyes. "Where do you think this is coming from? It's not coming from me or you or the Yard. I lodged a complaint about Donovan's lack of professionalism towards Sherlock and she hasn't made so much as a peep in his direction since. Though I can't rule out others."

"_I'll look into it and get back to you,_" the politician promised.

"Can you meet me at Regent's Park?"

John could almost _hear_ the smile on the other end. "_Of course._"

They rang off and John looked at his phone with a huge smile. Yes, this was going to work out fine.

He darted through traffic to get back to Baker Street. He opened the door and was just going to storm up the stairs, when he heard Sherlock say, "Mrs Hudson, why haven't you evicted me yet?"

John leaned against wall at the bottom of the stairs and listened.

"I really should, you know. The experiments, the violin at all hours, the destruction of property," their landlady replied.

"So, why haven't you?"

"Because my dear boy, I'd miss _you._"

John slipped back out. Mrs Hudson had that part of it well in hand. Chances were that he'd only muck it up.

He rushed back to Regent's Park. He couldn't say that he was surprised to see Mycroft sitting on the bench that had until recently held a member of Sherlock's homeless network and all her things.

"So, have you figured out the cause of Sherlock's depressive episode?" John asked, as he neared the politician.

"Unfortunately, yes," Mycroft said, indicating that John should sit down. John took his suggestion and sat next to his best friend's brother.

"Apparently, my PA has been…shall we say…working outside her usual perimeters."

"What did she say?"

"Do you remember the case from a couple of nights ago? The one where they attempted to kidnap him?"

How could John forget; it still chaffed that it was "Anthea" who stopped the kidnapping. She had been on her way to pick Sherlock up to talk to Mycroft. Her being there foiled the kidnappers.

"She said something to him then?"

"Indeed. She told him that he ought to give it up and do something productive, something his parents could be proud of. And then just as he was leaving, she muttered under her breath, 'No wonder he doesn't like you.' You know my brother well enough to fill in the rest."

John put his head in his hands and drew them along his face. "He took it to mean that your parents were disappointed in him and that you hated him. And if his own family thought that he was useless and hated him, what must the rest of us think?"

"Precisely. But this, what you're doing with this plan of yours. It will help. I just hope it's enough."

"Me, too. Me, too."

At ten minutes to the hour, John stood up. "All right, it's time to get the man of the hour."

Mycroft smiled up at him. "I'll direct things on this end, shall I?"

John just smiled and headed back to his flat. He bullied the detective into some clothes and dragged him and Mrs Hudson along. They made it to the park and when they turned the corner Sherlock nearly fell to his knees.

Standing there was most of the homeless network, a good portion of the Metropolitan police force, dozens of their former clients, and in front of them all was Sherlock's family.

Mrs Hudson held up the detective as tears streamed down his face.

John walked up to his friend and gently pried him off their landlady. She moved to stand with everyone else.

"Do you see all these people, Sherlock?"

Sherlock nodded. "They are here because of you. And these are just the ones who could make it on such sort notice. Though Mycroft flew your parents in on a helicopter."

Mr and Mrs Holmes came up and hugged their son. "We are so proud of you. So, so very proud." Sherlock nodded.

Mycroft came up next. He grabbed Sherlock by the nape of his neck and pressed him into his shoulder, where the younger Holmes sobbed. He whispered fiercely into Sherlock's ear, "I could never hate you. Never. You hear me?" Sherlock nodded.

Clients came up and shook his hand as did his homeless network, chief among them, Wiggins.

But it was Lestrade who made it so that there wasn't a dry eye in the whole place. He said loudly enough for everyone to hear, "We aren't jealous of you down at the Yard, Sherlock. We are _proud_ of you. I got as many of us as I could and there isn't a damn one of us here or down at the Yard who wouldn't want to shake your hand."

John turned to Sherlock. "You see? You see how loved you are?"

Sherlock nodded. "But you haven't said why you stay, John," he murmured into his friend's shoulder.

"I thought you knew. I love you, you daft git." And then John turned his head so that his lips touched Sherlock's. A cheer went up.

"_Doubt thou the stars are fire; Doubt that the sun doth move; Doubt truth to be a liar; But never doubt I love," _Sherlock said when they broke off their kiss.

"You would have Shakespeare in that big head of yours, but not the solar system. Otherwise you'd know that the sun doesn't move," John said with a chuckle.

"John!" Sherlock protested.

"Sorry, love."

Sherlock smiled fondly down at John and another cheer went up.

* * *

To say that Sherlock never doubted or was depressed again would be a lie. But sometimes all it takes is to be reminded that you are loved. That there are people out there who do care about your well-being. And that despite that black dog nipping at your heels telling you you aren't worth anything, you belong somewhere; that someone loves you.

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**A/N: Me again. Don't feel to harshly toward poor Anthea. She never meant for her words to be taken in such a way. How often have we all said something we didn't mean when we were tired or stressed? Or said something that didn't mean what the other person took it as? Communication is such a bizarre and complicated thing and in the scene I never wrote, because I wanted to focus on Sherlock, she offers to resign. Mycroft won't let her, of course, but he does put her on administrative leave without pay for a week.**

Also, what happened Mary is up to the reader. Dead, divorced, incarcerated. Whatever. I'm not picky.


End file.
